


Bedroom Doorways

by ObsidianButterfly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, NSFW, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianButterfly/pseuds/ObsidianButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft catches Sherlock in the act of a little self-love, and the urge to join him is getting out of hand. Smut with no redeeming qualities what so ever</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedroom Doorways

Not once, in his seventeen years of existence, had Sherlock ever closed his bedroom door. 

Mycroft had complained, on _several_ occasions, Father had asked, Mummy had _demanded_ , but never could the elder Holmes sibling remember it being closed of Sherlock’s own volition. 

Any number of odd noises, minor explosions and strange chemical smells emanated from his brother’s bedroom at any given time. Even their usually ever-encouraging Mother objected to her favourite child protégé and his calamitous experiments. 

Fear, Mycroft told himself, was nothing but a defective chemical reaction that could be controlled and mastered. He doubted, however, the sturdiest character wouldn’t pause at finding a four inch tarantula poised at the bottom of their bed when they awoke. There had been a swift clear out of all Sherlock’s living experiments after that little event.

Most teenagers will forcefully slam their door behind them during instances of temper. However, even on these occasions, and Sherlock could certainly be one of the surliest people he knew, Mycroft couldn’t remember it being closed. That is probably why he was unconcerned at the sight of the open expanse of painted wood as gently padded from the bathroom back to his own bedroom.

A quick glance through the doorway in passing was normal, casual, _entirely_ innocent even. Especially given the fact that it was commonly flung open, allowing dull, perpetual twilight to creep out into the hall. 

The constantly closed curtains were another issue their Mother frequently broached. Mycroft wasn’t convinced Sherlock’s bedroom window could actually physically open anymore thanks to several coats of paint and years of inactivity.

This time however, after a cursory glance, Mycroft was stopped in his tracks, his gradual progression back to his own bedroom halted by a never before seen sight.

He should go, Mycroft thought. He should definitely go, keep walking and possibly close the door behind him just in case their parents arrived home suddenly. Instead, the older Holmes found himself gripping the door frame, long pale fingers slightly shaking, whether it was in surprise, shock, or something else entirely, he wasn’t quite sure yet.

He made an effort to make no noise. Focusing on his breathing, Mycroft tried to keep it low and steady, _discreet_ , lest he be discovered. But by the look on Sherlock’s face, he doubted small noises would rouse him.

Mycroft was glad to be partly concealed in the shadows of the hall as he loitered in the doorway. From this position he easily observed his brother sprawled on the bed. Naked. Completely and utterly... _naked_. 

It had been years since Mycroft had seen Sherlock nude, and in much more innocent circumstances than this.

Long lean limbs jutted out at odd angles. Lying on his back, legs parted and knees drawn up slightly, Sherlock did make an awfully _appealing_ sight. He was paler than Mycroft imagined, if he had chosen to imagine that is. Unlike himself, Sherlock’s skin turned a lovely golden brown in the sun compared with Mycroft’s habitual beet-red. But it wasn’t as if either of them spent an inordinate amount of time outside, attempts at family holidays in warm climates had been abandoned years ago, for everyone’s sanity.

Sherlock’s sculpted face was thrown back against the pillows, curly hair in disarray. Mycroft could picture the vivid green of his brothers penetrating gaze. But those beautiful eyes were closed for now, long black lashes fluttering against pink cheeks. There was a look of profound concentration on his face and just the slightest twist of lips in satisfied smile, enjoying whatever fantasy was playing through his mind.

Mycroft swallowed hard, hoping the noise that seemed to echo in his own ears was not heard throughout the room. He really should walk away, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint the compulsion that rooted him to his spot on the plush carpeted floor as he watched Sherlock naked, masturbating on his bed.

His brother’s breath was coming in small soft gasps, Mycroft marvelled at how he never heard it before now, in the bathroom, in the hallway, even in the privacy of his own room. The intense sexual noises were all that seemed to echo in his ears now.

Sherlock wrapped his right hand around his stiff cock, fairly loosely, just sitting there for now, teasing. His left hand cradled his balls, gently tugging them away from his body. He was just exploring, a slow teasing build up before getting down the serious business of orgasm. Mycroft had been there and done that, he wasn’t immune from the self-pleasure of his own body. This slow gentle start wouldn’t last and soon there would be louder murmurs, bucking hips, firmer strokes…

Would it be so wrong to sit and just… _watch_ , Mycroft wondered? What was disturbing was how much he was enjoying it. Watching baby brother get himself off was leaving all of his own neatly tailored clothing uncomfortably tight and it was taking an inordinate amount of willpower not to sneak his own hand down his body to rearrange a more intimate part of his anatomy.

He always did have beautiful hands, Mycroft mused as he watched Sherlock’s long digits manipulate and glide over velvety skin. Elegant fingers that he had observed slide over the strings of his violin or measure out the correct weight of ingredients for noxious experiments were now engaged in a much more ancient past-time.

Mycroft scrutinised every movement, memorising the way Sherlock’s hands teased and rubbed, caressed and brushed, his grip getting tighter and tighter until the flesh of his cock became an ever angrier red, the blood-flushed skin standing out in remarkable contrast to those pale fingers.

Sherlock’s grip wasn’t the only thing getting tighter. Mycroft’s trousers were painfully tented, the small rub and friction of the heavy fabric and slickness of cotton boxers across his aroused flesh causing pleasurable tingling in the pit of his stomach. He really should walk away now. Walk away and perhaps take care of himself in the privacy of his own room? What on earth was he going to do the next time his brother handed him a book or placed a casual touch on his shoulder? All he would be able to envision from now on was a rapturous expression on that face and a hard cock pressed between his palms.

Oh god, what on earth was he doing?! Why was he still here? Mycroft shifted slightly in his position, trying to remain as quiet as possible and cursing the seemingly noisy rustle of his clothing. His attempts to fight his own body’s reaction were failing and for all his rational minds objections; his feet were not walking him away from Sherlock’s bedroom door. 

He couldn’t possibly leave now, now when things were becoming much more interesting. Sherlock appeared to be really getting into it, hips now gently bucking upwards to meet the thrust of his hand. He was being rougher with himself than Mycroft would have been, tugging and jerking at his foreskin at an alarming pace. The head of his cock already wet and leaking clear sticky fluid, dribbled down across his shaft and onto his thumb. Mycroft idly wondered, possibly wrongly, what his brother would taste like, how it would feel to let the tip of his tongue slide up that perfectly enticing cock.

Sherlock’s soft excited sounds travelled straight to the older Holmes groin. Everything sounded so… _loud_ , the brush of skin on skin, the creaking of bed springs, soft grunts issuing from barely parted lips, wet…squelching. 

Mycroft was dying to make some sort of groan himself but couldn’t possibly, he couldn’t be discovered in this act of voyeurism.

After a particularly throaty moan, Sherlock sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down firmly in effort to stifle the more enthusiastic of his gasps. He almost drew blood. 

Mycroft could only watch as Sherlock’s breathing became faster, erratic, bare chest rising and falling rapidly, out of sync, out of rhythm with his hands as if the amount of concentration to urge him into his pleasure was overtaking the needed to breathe normally.

Mycroft himself was left fighting for control so that he did not do the same. He reaffirmed his death grip on the doorframe to prevent the exponentially increasing need to touch himself. He was so close, even without manual stimulation, just the sights and sounds of his brother and his own imagination pushing him to the edge. But he simply refused to cum in his trousers like thirteen year old boy, even if he was barely a touch away from doing so. The older Holmes would watch, but pride and perhaps a final small shred of propriety, wasn’t going to let him participate in this little game.

It hadn’t taken Sherlock long to reach this level of excitement, Mycroft noted. He wondered how young his brother started. How often? He was clearly already a master of his own body and although it felt like an eternity to Mycroft, he guessed he had only been watching for a few minutes. Sherlock’s body was practically humming with energy. His movements were faster, sharper, body practically convulsing on the bed as he groaned and writhed, urging his body to climax.

His brother was practically on the edge with him, hips swaying gently, lips pressed tightly together, mentally encouraging Sherlock’s endeavours. 

There was a final sharp intake of breath, then silence. Sherlock’s back arched violently, hips thrust upwards off the bed as streams of thick white cum erupt from his straining cock, coating his hand and stomach. 

Mycroft too, held his breath, carefully licking his lips, enjoying his brother’s moment of climax. He could see the muscles contort in Sherlock’s stomach, the slight quiver of thighs and tendons in the back of his hand tense as Sherlock gave himself a final little squeeze. 

Finished and sated, Sherlock’s was now breathing heavily through his nose. His body relaxed back against the bedding, seemingly boneless and exhausted.

Mycroft had been so preoccupied with the spectacular finish, eyes fixed on his brothers softening cock that the rest of the room, the house, and the world were completely lost. If their parents walked through the front door now it would be unlikely their oldest son could form any sort of brain function to do anything about it. He was willing to bet he could close his eyes and picture Sherlock vividly, every flush of colour, every contour, every vein decorating his manhood. 

He allowed his gaze to wander up Sherlock’s young body, drinking in his flat stomach, just barely defined chest, long neck; he was expecting to see a face contorted in rapture, dark curls sinking against the pillows and a look of ultimate contentment. He was not expecting a pair of wide green orbs to be staring accusingly back at him. 

Still sprawled across his bed, hand toying with his manhood, Sherlock was staring right at Mycroft in the doorway. There was a look of shock rapidly turning to disbelief and eventually anger etched on his features.  
The older Holmes found himself rooted to the spot. Running now was of no use, he had been caught and in hindsight, he definitely should have left many moments ago. Mycroft wondered how long Sherlock had been watching him while he was focused on a more intimate part of his body. Could he fake it and pretend he just glanced in now and hadn’t watched the whole show complete with thrilling climax?

So paralysed in guilt, he couldn’t even drop his gaze and was left holding the intense one from his brother. Mycroft knew, deep down in his gut, he wouldn’t get away with this. Sherlock knew he had been there watching, witnessing _everything_.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s lithe body moved, effortlessly rolling off the bed with all the grace of a cat. Dragging the blanket he had been sprawled on top of with him, he wrapped it loosely around his waist as he did so.  
Now standing, Sherlock sauntered around the bed in Mycroft’s direction, who could only watch him approach, cursing his legs for not letting him run away as fast as he could.

Sherlock held the bedding so loosely around himself that the blanket just about hugged lean hips and threatened to fall off. Baby brother exposing himself again was the last thing Mycroft’s perilously thin control needed at the moment, but his gaze flickered down anyway, unable to help himself. The added splattering of ejaculate still decorating Sherlock’s perfect torso was doing nothing to bring the pair of them back to a normal setting.

Mycroft watched Sherlock stalk closer with baited breath. He never realised just how tall his brother was. When had he grown up so suddenly? The small scared, easily-manipulated boy who was scared of the east wind coming to get him, was now an inch away from Mycroft’s height and staring him down defiantly, naked and unashamed, with evidence of his own pleasure decorating his body.

Sherlock approached the doorway to his bedroom and stopped, bare toes mere inches from Mycroft’s polished brogues. So close, Mycroft could see the excited pink flush across his brother’s cheeks and the small smattering of fine dark hairs covering his chest. Sherlock’s gaze was unabashed; there was no hint of shame there as there probably would have been in his brothers.

Mycroft swallowed, staring back at his brother’s intense gaze, mouth open and completely lost for words. He didn’t expect to see small smirk play across Sherlock’s features as his eyes slide down Mycroft’s body to finally rest on his groin.

His elder sibling’s excitement was evident; Sherlock clearly needed none of his powers of observation to see that he had been aroused at the spectacle. Reaching out slowly, Sherlock’s hand was only inched from him and Mycroft couldn’t only hold his breath, wondering what was happening and expecting a fist to be connecting with his jaw at any moment.

Nearly flinching, Mycroft closed his eyes. After a few moments of nothing he carefully opened them again to face his brother still standing so enticingly close. Sherlock pouted his lips, whetting them with just the tip of his tongue. It was slow and deliberate, and as his gaze slid up to connect with Mycroft’s once more who nearly whimpered in response.

The look. The look and one forefinger was all it took. The tip of Sherlock’s forefinger ran the length of Mycroft’s trouser zipper and he came, body betraying him and knees nearly buckling. Only his grip on the doorway kept Mycroft upright at the completely visceral reaction to his brother.

He tried to stifle the almost-painful cry of release, but Mycroft could feel the warm staining down the front of his clothing already. His hairline was soaked with sweat and his body pulsed with need, all the while Sherlock’s angelic face and body filling his vision

With a final naughty smirk and a look of utter defiance, Sherlock turned his back on his brother, hips swaying all the way back to the bed. He slid back on top of the soft mattress before settling himself and flinging open the blanket, exposing himself to view.

‘In or out Mycroft. Oh, and shut the door behind you.’

Hesitating in the doorway, Mycroft was torn between joining Sherlock on the bed and sprinting back to his own room and never coming out again.

Eventually the sight of his brother idly trailing long fingers through the cooling white cum on his stomach and the trickle down his own leg was too much. He was reminded of the utter pleasure he just received from only watching. Imagine what it could be like if was allowed to _touch_ …

Mycroft stepped into the bedroom and kicked the door behind him.


End file.
